“And how about Charlie Carleton?” demanded Alick, turning round full on her.

“For shame, Alick!” she exclaimed hotly; “you who were the one to persecute me about him, and tell me all sorts of things about his being shallow and unprincipled, and not to be thought of, you to bring him up against me now.”

“I might think all you allege,” returned Alick, gravely, “and yet be much amazed at the new project.”

Bessie laughed.  “In fact you made a little romance, in which you acted the part of sapient brother, and the poor little sister broke her heart ever after!  You wanted such an entertainment when you were lying on the sofa, so you created a heroine and a villain, and thundered down to the rescue.”

“Very pretty, Bessie, but it will not do.  It was long after I was well again, and had joined.”

“Then it was the well-considered effect of the musings of your convalescence!  When you have a sister to take care of, it is as well to feel that you are doing it.”

“Now, Elizabeth,” said her brother, with seriousness not to be laughed aside, and laying his hand on hers, “before I hear another word on this matter, look me in the face and tell me deliberately that you never cared for Carleton.”

“I never thought for one moment of marrying him,” said Bessie, haughtily.  “If I ever had any sort of mercy on him, it was all to tease you.  There, are you satisfied?”

“I must be, I suppose,” he replied, and he sighed heavily.  “When was this settled?”

“Yesterday, walking up and down the esplanade.  He will tell his brother to-day, and I shall write to Lady Temple.  Oh, Alick, he is so kind, he spoke so highly of you.”

“I must say,” returned Alick, in the same grave tone, “that if you wished for the care of an old man, I should have thought my uncle the more agreeable of the two.”

“He is little past fifty.  You are very hard on him.”

“On the contrary, I am sorry for him.  You will always find it good for him to do whatever suits yourself.”

“Alick?” said his sister mournfully, “you have never forgotten or forgiven my girlish bits of neglect after your wound.”

“No, Bessie,” he said, holding her hand kindly, “it is not the neglect or the girlishness, but the excuses to me, still more to my uncle, and most of all to yourself.  They are what make me afraid for you in what you are going to take upon yourself.”

She did not answer immediately, and he pursued—­“Are you driven to this by dislike to living at Bishopsworthy?  If so, do not be afraid to tell me.  I will make any arrangement, if you would prefer living with Jane.  We agreed once that it would be too expensive, but now I could let you have another hundred a year.”

“As if I would allow that, Alick!  No, indeed!  Lord Keith means you to have all my share.”

“Does he?  There are more words than one to that question.  And pray is he going to provide properly for his poor daughter in the West Indies?”